“What do I want?”
I wanted to sell.
When I finally told Tommy, he went quiet.
Then he asked, “Do you want help?”
That mattered.
He asked.
“Yes,” I said. “Help me sort the garage.”
We worked through boxes together.
Every time he picked something up, he asked:
“Keep?”
“Donate?”
“Sell?”
When we reached James’s tools, I handed Tommy one of his father’s old wrench sets.
He froze.
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
That was different.
It was a gift.
Chosen.
Completed.
Freely given.
Eventually I sold the house at fair market value and moved into a smaller condo with an elevator.
I kept the music box.
James’s lamp.
Several paintings.
Other things I sold or donated.
Letting go felt completely different when the decision belonged to me.
Years later, while unpacking an old box, I found one of James’s notebooks.
Inside was a page titled:
“DOROTHY / TOMMY.”
